So I've been thinking in my spare time of trying to get some of my poetry out there, but while getting a couple poems here and there in magazines would be exciting, I'd rather have a book of poetry published. Therefore, I've been holding out, because once something has been published before somewhere else, it creates difficulties in publishing it again with a different publisher, even if it is your own collection. However, publishers almost never accept poetry manuscripts anyway, especially from unknowns.
I know I've got what it takes, but honestly, I don't have the kind of time it takes at the moment to crank out enough poetry to both get my name out there in magazines and other publications and still be able to put out a whole book of completely fresh poetry if need be.
So here it goes: I've been fortunate enough to come across a small, southern publisher that is accepting full poetry manuscripts until this coming June. I won't let myself get excited because I'm sure lots of other aspiring poets will be submitting their work as well, but I'm ready to place enough stock in this to forgo any future attempts to publish my poetry with other companies until the time comes that I've been either rejected or accepted next year.
Of course, there's always more than one way to get my work out there, so in celebration of my forthcoming hard work to assemble what I've got plus many new pieces into a working manuscript, here's the very first poem I've ever made available to any kind of public medium. Enjoy <3
Mortality
The goddess, Mortality, quickens,
Stirs somewhere in your gut,
Prodded, disturbed, but still
Languid and half-dreaming,
One eye playfully propped open.
A stretch chases itself through her curves,
Wild, shuddering rabbit that
Makes splinters of ribs,
Severs spine with awkward splayed toes.
Fractures on the neck, the quick nuzzle
Of a hairline, hands stretched up and up,
Pinching closed eyes from within,
Twisting a palm mercilessly across
Gray matter.
A lung-crushing yawn wracks her frame
As a knee nudges mercilessly at an old
Injury, old surgery, barely healed cyst-hole.
A tube down a throat, a clamp on a finger,
And placated, sated, having served her
Purpose, she settles down,
Neat and small in some dark red cubby,
Hardly hoping, hardly wishing for
An explosion.